less than ratify the 'Privilege Act' in return; and, indeed, I confess to being considerably put about in the matter; for I feel it is not becoming a ruler to receive presents from his subjects and not requite the donors, and this is a case in which patronage, or favours, or appointments are inapplicable, seeing they have them all at their command. Thou seest, therefore, O Muftifiz! that my consent to the 'Privilege Act' is actually wrung from me. A celebrated North Land jurisconsult hath said that there never was an act framed through which he could not drive a carriage-and-four. Canst thou, O Muftifiz! in this dilemma show me the needle's head through which to creep ?"

IV.

THE Council of ministers was assembled. A deputation of the burgesses attended. It was known by proclamation that the pacha would that morning give his answer to the latter's petition touching the granting the 'Privilege Act,' seconded as it was by the former. The impatience for a solution was symptomatic expectation was on the rack. The ministers and burgesses required the application of an affirmative. The body of the people was prepared for a negative. The pacha's aga appears at the door of the hall.

"Allah il Allah! and Mohammet is his prophet. Mighty viziers, the pacha's answer waits to be received."

"We respectfully wait the pacha's answer," replied Achmet Benali, as president of the council. He had risen, and everybody had followed his example.

Enter the pacha's aga with a roll of parchment, followed by an eunuch carrying a silver platter covered over. They advance to the foot of the table, on which the eunuch lays the dish.

"To his loyal burgesses," says the aga, "Ali Caskoo Pacha greeting, sayeth: Be it known unto you, my loving burgesses, that inasmuch as oppression begins where abnegation ends; that interest is antagonistic to justice, we upon a careful consideration and just cognisance of its motives, refuse to sanction the Privilege Act.'

And to his ministers," continued the aga, "the pacha sends his kind compliments, and begs to thank them for their handsome present, in return for which he trust they will accept the accompanying feeble mark of his regard and admiration." And suiting the action to the word, the aga raised the cover from off the dish and disclosed a splendid beetroot, measuring three feet from the top to the tail, and twenty inches in circumference.

HOW DO BRITISH SEAMEN FIGHT?

BY NICHOLAS MICHELL.

THEY spy the foe, and ahead they go,
Each inch of canvas set;

They pause not to ask, if hard the task,
If the ships they see, few or many may be,
They but pant alongside to get:

So with sail and steam, they plough Ocean's stream,
Walking up to the fleet, they burn to meet;
And though far away, the foe's ball will play,
Glancing and dancing along the salt spray,
Carrying at times a top-spar away,
They never will fire, restraining their ire,
Till the right minute's come;

Ye can scarce hear a hum;

But aft and fore, the netting's braced o'er,
And each man stands, with ready hands,
Beside his black gun,

Whose work shall be done,

Now as when Nelson walked Ocean in might;
And this is the way British seamen will fight.

The foe's shots, still, are flying, but ill;
And the English laugh, and deem them but chaff,
As their good ships steer, more near and near,
Now silent, deathful, and slow;

Till the signal is given, and around they veer,
With broadsides to the foe!

Then
ye see in a moment, nor dull, nor tame,
Shoot forth a thousand bright jets of flame;
And hark! the quick burst, so patiently nursed,
Of the thousand black guns, whose roaring stuns
All, all, but the seaman's ear;

And to him no tones, which music owns,
Are half so loved and dear:

Then the ceaseless rattle of Marines who battle,
With muskets aft and fore;

And the shiver of spars, and splintered bars,
And of some tall mast, as a chain-shot past,
Coming down with a crash, in ocean to splash,
All mix with the long deep roar.

Oh! yes, when begun, each English gun

Its death-voice for ever sends out,

While thrilling to heaven, as each broadside is given,

Goes up

the British shout:

So with "hearts of oak," and with hands of might, This is the way our seamen will fight.

Yet, ah! do not deem, though so reckless they seem,
They ne'er think of God, home, or death;
Ere this hour drew nigh, they sent prayer on high,
Bless'd home, and the loved ones they left with a sigh,
And gave to Heaven's keeping their breath.
Now their country claims all, her foes must fall,
And her flag no stain must bear;

And they think of this, as they bowl forth the ball
That crashes and smashes each frigate's long wall,
And Ruin rides Death's wing there!

But colours and trumpets now orders tell,
And their meaning the valiant crews know well-
Lay alongside! is the word that is past,
Grasp the strong pike and cutlass fast,

And firmly nail each flag to the mast

"Board! board! my lads!" is the cry;

And "Ready!" sounds out the hearty reply. Then swift to the bulwarks the armed men are springing, The pikes thickly bristling, the cutlasses swinging, And down from the "tops" is musketry ringing; And a whirlwind there goes,

To level our foes:

Here England is matchless, no combatants stand
The sturdy hot British with cutlass in hand;
Others tremble that fatal word "boarding" to hear,
Their blood coldly creeping, their hands numbed with fear.
But on tars are rushing, and momently flushing,

As before them the Muscovites bow;

And down, down they spring on the enemy's deck,
Making there, fierce avengers, a ruin and wreck:
Oh! frail seem the Northmen now!

Not their admiral's threats, nor thoughts of disgrace,
Nor dread of the knout, can e'er make them face
The heroes from Albion's land;

Not a moment those Muscovites stand;
So down comes their flag, and up goes our cheer,
Old Ocean once more his brave children may hear;
And Victory sets on us her laurel so green,

And we shout for loved England, and shout for our Queen:
And thus we uphold sacred justice and right,

And this is the way British seamen will fight.

A DRIVE TO THE DERBY.

THE drive from London to Epsom Downs is much spoiled in the present day. The railway system has changed a Derby morning in London and out of it, as it has altered all the usual carriage and coach locomotion of the country. What a holiday morning it used to be throughout the whole West End, from the New-road and Regent's Park to Charing-cross and Hyde Park Corner! The entire quarter had the air of a general wedding-as if the whole West End was being married. The streets, hitherto and always delivered up at the early hours preceding midday to buttermen and egg-sellers and diligent sweepers of crossings, were on this particular morning all alive with, as it were, bridal parties. You could not walk along any street, or across any square, without meeting perpetual barouches and four-posters, either empty and going leisurely at a foot's pace on their way to take up their expectant party of holiday folk, or bowling along at a sharp trot, full inside and out from box to rumble, and laden with a clique of sporting men too eager for the Downs to lose much of their morning in London-early birds, thinking of the worm waiting to be caught in the Ring. At every other window were the sparkling faces of women, ready bonneted, and looking anxiously for the wished-for carriage-how irritating were the pretty faces, and how tantalising were the bonnets-how often the watches were consulted, and how frequent were the exclamations of a certainty of being too late, long before the time appointed for starting. At every corner were well-dressed men on foot or on horseback-a rare vision at that early hour except on this particular morning of the year. In every stable-yard were not coachmen leisurely washing their carriages as usual, but drags loading, horses putting to, servants hurrying, bustle and movement everywhere; while on the great thoroughfares four-horse coaches were standing in groups, and being rapidly covered with compact masses of men, while horns and key-bugles were sounding on all sides as private drags and public teams were starting with their respective and pleasure-seeking parties. Elasticity was in every limb, eagerness in every face, a sparkle in every eye, and good humour in every voice. Not a man or woman was there scarcely in all that district but had thrown care to the winds for the nonce.

It was one great and general festivity.

Then, too, "The Corner"-the world-famous Corner-what a scene it presented on the morning of that day! And again in the evening-the start-and the return! The road, too, from that Corner to the Downs what a spectacle it offered! Such a long column of horses and carriages— such a display of wealth-such an exodus of a mighty population-such a wondrous scene on an occasion of mere festive amusement the whole world together could not produce!

Much of this is gone now. The railways have utterly smashed all this horse and carriage splendour. The kind and number of carriages no longer exist. The thing cannot be done, for the material is not. People go to the Derby; but how many sneak down to a terminus in shabby omnibus, or cab, or brougham, and get to the Downs anyhow? The brilliant and festive scene is no more.

But well do I remember those days, and look back on them with a regret for their departure. Among the various occasions of my going to

Epsom on the Derby Day there was one which, besides the usual amusement-that of the drive down, in which I especially delighted-had its own peculiar circumstances, and these did not in any way detract from the merit and the enjoyment of the day. Here it is.

I was living with one of my brothers on the banks of the Thames not a hundred miles from London or fifty from Kew-bridge. The family being from home the horses were all out at grass, but we determined for the nonce to have up a young coach-horse and drive him to the Downs on the Derby Day. The horse was but four years old, bred at home, about three-parts blood, rather more than seventeen hands high, bony and powerful. He was only about half-broken, had a bad mouth, and was not of the best of tempers, for when at grass with the other horses he was a vicious and daring brute, and exercised a savage dominion over all his companions. Altogether, Brown Windsor (his colour was brown) was not a promising specimen of a gig horse, and not precisely the right horse for a crowded road on an Epsom day. Moreover, he had never been in single harness, and had not been in harness at all for four or five months. He was raw as a colt. But in those days I rather liked "a queer one," and preferred his unruly ways to the habits of a quiet nag, and therefore, my brother declaring himself to be quite indifferent in the matter, I chose this unruly Brown Windsor in preference to any steadier horse for our drive. I always found a keen sense of pleasure, and an exciting demand on one's powers, in having to do with "a rum one," beyond the mere riding or driving. It was like going into a fight and having a struggle with an enemy.

Accordingly, Brown Windsor was caught up over-night, was stuffed with corn, and in due time was put into a gig, and we started.

My brother disliked driving, and he had besides such an affection for his pipe-he always smoked a little old ivory pipe-and which he proposed to smoke at his ease all the way to Epsom, that he got into his seat at once, saying, "Come, Tom, you drive; I know you like driving; and a pretty job you'll have of it if I'm not much mistaken." Brownie was very uneasy during the putting to, not much liking the shafts; and directly he got outside the coach-house-out of which he was led-and his head was let go, he at once began to go in a very awkward fashion, and which ended in his throwing his head about in a wilful manner, and trotting in irregular circles round the yard, and refusing absolutely to go out of the gate.

"A rather curious beginning, Harry," said I; "the brute has no fancy for single harness-clearly not."

"Puff, puff-it's your affair," replied Harry, sitting stoically there just as much at his ease as if in his arm-chair, or Brown Windsor was behaving like a lamb. "You are driving, not I. I shouldn't be surprised if he puff, puff-sent us both to the deuce before the day is over."

After near a quarter of an hour of this vagrant movement-stopping here-shying off from nothing there-making excursions about the yard just where he liked-turning every way but the right, now up the roadway, then over the grass, now round by the coach-house doors, then along by the trees, for I gave him his head just to let him feel his harness, and to humour him and keep him in motion,-at last the moment came: giving him a sharp and sudden swing round-it came on him by